She pulled a pad over and grabbed a pencil. "Sure – go ahead."
"Tell them I think it would be a good idea to find out who owns the People's Voice – I mean who really owns it, not what it says in small print on page 2."
She wrote busily for a few seconds. "Got it, Stan – I'll tell them the next time they come in."
"Thanks. Hey – how'd the tournament go last weekend? Did you take First again?"
Louise is an absolute genius at Scrabble, and she's got the trophies to prove it.
She made a face. "Nah. Second."
"You'll get 'em next time."
"Damn straight I will."
Karl and I spent about an hour catching up on paperwork – or whatever we should call it these days, since no paper's involved. Then we signed out for the night. Fifteen minutes later, I was home.
As I closed the front door behind me, I noticed there was no light on in the kitchen. Christine can see fine in the dark, but she usually leaves the light on for my sake. I flipped the switch – no Christine. Tonight had been her night off, so I knew she hadn't gone to work.
Living room – nothing. I looked in the basement, although Christine never goes down there until she has to. Nothing. Then I checked the bathroom and upstairs. Nada.
A cold hand had gripped my chest as soon as I saw the darkened kitchen, and with every room I looked in, it grabbed a little tighter. I checked my watch – sunrise in seven minutes.
If she was stuck somewhere and couldn't get home before dawn, she'd have called – either to have me come get her, or at least to let me know that she was OK. But my cell phone hadn't rung all night. It occurred to me to check the house phone – we still have a landline, call me old-fashioned – and felt a surge of relief when I saw the red light blinking on the answering machine. I started toward it – and then heard the sound of a key in the front door.
A moment later, Christine walked in. I resisted the temptation to go all fatherly and give her, "Where have you been, young lady?" She was an adult now, and besides, she's a vampire – people are probably afraid of her.
She closed the door and said, "Hi, Daddy." To my ears she sounded a little like a teenager coming home way past curfew, but I might have been projecting my own feelings onto her.
I took a deep breath, let it out and said, "You're cutting it pretty close tonight, baby. Sun's up in–"
"Six minutes. I know. I hope you weren't worried."
"What – me worry? I'm a regular Paul Newman."
She laughed a little. "I think you mean Alfred E." She came over and gave me a hug, and when she stepped back I saw, at the corner of her mouth, a tiny smear of red.
As she went over to put her purse on the kitchen counter I said, because I had to, "Mind if I ask where you were tonight?"
She turned back at once. The look she gave me wasn't angry, exactly, but I didn't think she was about to nominate me for Father of the Year, either.
She raised one eyebrow – something I've never been able to do, but her mother always could – and said, "I thought the new policy was 'Don't ask – don't tell.' Was it only good for twenty-four hours?"
We stood looking at each other for a little bit, then I blinked a couple of times and nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. I withdraw the question, and I'll try not to ask it again." I gave her half a grin. "Guess maybe I was a little worried, after all."
Her face relaxed. "I know, and I'm sorry I put you through it. I tried to take a shortcut home. Like most shortcuts, it ended up taking longer than the regular way."
"You could've transformed and flown home," I said.
"Yeah, I know. If I was really pushing the dawn, I would have. But I'd hate to just leave the car, with my purse in it, parked on some street all day. So I'm saving going batty as a last resort."
"You're the best judge," I said. "Just call me Paranoid Papa."
She gave me a smile that looked genuine. "I don't think it's called paranoia if you're scared for someone else." Glancing toward the window she said, "Well, time for nighty-night. See you at sundown."
She was opening the basement door when I said, "Don't get pissed off, but I need to ask you a very specific question, baby. Either answer it, or don't."
Her expression became wary. "All right, but be quick, huh?"
"Do you know a guy named Lester Howard?"
"Is he warm?"
He wasn't when I saw him, but to avoid confusing her I just said, "Yeah."
Her brows furrowed, then she shook her head slowly. "Nope, the name doesn't ring any bells. Why?"
"I'll tell you about it tonight. Sleep well, honey."
"OK, then. Goodnight, Daddy." She closed the door behind her, and I could hear her footsteps on the stairs.
I'm not going to say it's impossible for Christine to deceive me. Any parent who thinks that is a fool. But I've known her a long time – her whole life, and then some – and I believed her.
Then I remembered that answering machine message. If it wasn't Christine, then who…?
"Stan, hey, it's Karl. I've gotta hit the hay in a couple minutes, but on the way home it hit me why that weird knife wound in Milo rang a bell. I was at the Supernatural Law Enforcement Conference in LA last year – you got me that grant, remember? So I met this chick from Chicago, she's a detective on their Spook Squad. Spent all my free time buying her drinks and trying to get into her pants. I never did, but I remember she told me about a bunch of homicides where each one of the vics had a long blade shoved through the soft tissue under his jaw and up into the brain. Familiar, haina? She said the Chicago cops had a pretty good idea who the hitter was, they just couldn't prove it. And catch this: she said the guy would kill anybody for money, but the dude specialized in supes. I'll call her tonight and try to get a name and some more info. Catch you later, man."
When Christine got up, I told her about Lester Howard, and then about the whole Helter Skelter thing. Since these bastards were going around killing supes as well as humans, I figured she ought to know.
When I finished, she took a last swallow from the cup of warm plasma she'd been drinking, pushed the cup to the side and said, "Race war? Seriously? These people have got to be insane."
"I wouldn't doubt it," I said.
"I mean, they're crazy enough for wanting it, but if they think they can actually make it happen…" She shook her head.
"Yeah, I know. But the fact that it's a pipe dream doesn't mean they won't kill people trying to achieve it, just like Charlie Manson and his followers did, back in the day. Or Hitler, before him."
"Hitler wanted Helter Skelter too? I never knew that."
"No, what I mean is he had a crazy racial dream – a completely Aryan world. Ridiculous idea, but Adolf and his buddies wiped out millions trying to achieve it."
"Yeah, OK, I get you."
"Which is why I'd like you to be extra careful when you're out, wherever you go. These lunatics have killed at least six supes so far, two of them vampires. And they're not going to quit until somebody stops them."
"I assume that's where you come in," she said.
"Goddamn right I do – but it's gonna take a while, which is why I want you to be alert and cautious at all times."
"Yes, Daddy." Usually, there's a teasing lilt to her voice when she says that. But not this time.
"I've got a locksmith coming over tomorrow," I told her. "He's going to put better locks on the doors and install a deadbolt on the door to the basement. It'll ease my mind a little about leaving you here alone all day."
"Fine with me," she said. "I want to rest, in peace, during the day, not rest in peace forever."
"Do you really?"
She frowned at me. "Huh?"
"I mean, would you rather be undead than true dead? Karl and I had a conversation about that the other night."
"Doesn't sound like an easy talk to have."
"It wasn't. Karl reminded me that he's a vampire because of me, just like you are. I asked if he'd prefer that I let him die,
back there at the pump house."
"And what did he say?"
"He said he didn't know, since he's never been dead."
"'Course he has," she said. "So have I – twelve hours every day, or however long the sun's up. It's boring, frankly. When Chandler called it 'the big sleep', he wasn't kidding."
"What about the afterlife? For the truly dead, I mean. Heaven, and all that."
"Far as I'm concerned, that's still an open question. Nobody's offered an answer that makes sense to me, so I'm not willing to take my chances just yet, if I don't have to." She pushed her chair back. "I need to jump into the shower and get dressed."
She took a few steps toward the doorway, then stopped and turned back to me. "I know this would sound really weird out of context, but – thanks for making me a vampire, Daddy." She gave me a big grin, fangs and all. "And remember to get two sets of keys for those new locks."
"Already ordered," I said. Then she was gone.
Christine usually leaves for work about an hour before I do. After we said goodbye, I toasted an oversize English muffin and ate it with peanut butter, shaved, took a shower, and cleaned Quincey's cage. I swear, that hamster seems to shit more than he eats.
As I pulled the front door shut behind me and felt the lock click into place, I was thinking about Karl and his onetime lust object, the detective in Chicago who might be able to give us a lead on Mr Milo's killer. Fortunately, I wasn't giving it all of my attention, or I'd be dead now.
Standing in the driveway, I pushed the button on my keychain that opens the garage door. Then my brain got around to processing a sound I'd heard a second or two earlier – something that sounded like a quickly stifled screech, and it had come from inside the garage. And there was an odor, as if somebody had left the lid off a garbage can – but trash pickup had been yesterday.
I backed up fast, drawing the Beretta as I moved.
Once the door had risen five or six feet, the goblins came pouring out, screeching like a platoon of scalded cats. Light from a nearby street lamp glittered on the blades of the long knives they held.
The only thing that'll kill goblins for certain is cold iron, and that fact put me in a good news/bad news situation.
Good news: I had cold-iron tipped slugs in the Beretta.
Bad news: I only had four of them. The clip holds eight rounds, but I usually carry half cold iron and half silver, alternating them when I load the clip. I never know what I'm going to have to deal with, and cold iron's no good against vamps or weres. I carry a round under the hammer, but that's silver, too – I have more confrontations with the undead and shifters than with goblins and other fey, so my ammo load reflects that.
Worse news: I had more goblins than bullets. As I backed down the driveway, the fucking gobs kept coming out of the garage, like clowns from a circus car. I counted six of them. They were all making that screeching noise they do in battle, which sounds like claws on a blackboard. It would have really annoyed me if I wasn't busy being scared shitless.
Thank God, or whoever's in charge, that Christine usually parks in the driveway. I don't know how well a vampire would have done against six goblins, but I'm glad Christine didn't have to find out. Whatever happened to me, she was out of danger – I hoped.
Despite my hasty retreat, the goblins were getting close now. I double-tapped the nearest, putting two rounds into his furry green chest. One was silver, which had no effect, but the cold iron slug did the job just fine. The goblin clutched at himself, screeching even louder for a second before he fell on the asphalt and was immediately trampled by his buddies, who just kept coming.
I dropped the second goblin the same way. That left me with two rounds of cold iron, and four goblins who wanted to kill me.
I pointed the Beretta at them two-handed and yelled, "Police officer! Freeze!" in my most authoritative-sounding voice. If I could get them to hesitate, I'd have the chance to make a break for the street. The gobs might not want to follow and kill me in front of witnesses. I was sure the neighbors had heard the shots. They might've called for help by now, but whether they dialed 911 or 666, nobody was going to get here in time to do me any good.
My Dirty Harry act was a flop. The goblins didn't even break stride. The light was better here and now I could see that their eyes, usually hooded and barely visible, were wide open and crazed. Meth? Again? A meth-addicted goblin had killed my partner eighteen months ago, but things had been quiet on that scene since, and I'd figured that the problem had burned itself out. Looks like I was wrong – maybe dead wrong.
Another goblin was closing, eager to stick that long blade in my guts. I fired twice and put him down. Another one was right behind him, so I fired my last three rounds, knowing one of them would be the cold iron that would ruin this greenie's night. It did. But now the Beretta's slide had locked open, meaning that I was out of ammo, and almost out of hope. I had a spare clip in my pocket, but I'd never be able to reload before the little green bastards were on top of me.
Two goblins left. Two knives. And me with no cold iron at all – except…
I snaked my left hand back near my hip and grabbed the handcuffs off my belt. I wasn't hoping to restrain the two goblins, but the cuffs are made of an alloy that contains silver – and cold iron.
I wrapped three fingers around one of the cuffs and swung the other one like a flail. I caught one of the goblins full in the face and he yelped and jumped back. It wasn't pure cold iron, but the blow had both hurt and surprised him.
The other one hesitated, and I thought for a second they might back off and give me room to run, but then the first goblin gave his misshapen head a quick shake and came in again. After a moment, his buddy joined him. I swung the cuffs again, but this time he ducked and the other one came in under my raised arm. I stiff-armed him back, but that was only going to work once – even goblins aren't that dumb. They separated a little now, muttering in their incomprehensible language, and I tried to console myself with the thought that Karl would track down these little bastards, and whoever had sent them, and then God help the whole fucking bunch. I figured that thought was going to be one of my last when a deep voice behind me said calmly, "Drop flat."
I didn't hesitate. A half second later I was on the ground, trying to turn my head around and see what was happening. I heard a loud thump and looked up in time to see the nearest goblin's face explode in a bloody mass of fur and bone. The last one stopped, looked at the remains of his pal, then screeched and threw himself at whoever was behind me. He got maybe half a step before another shotgun blast practically cut him in half.
I rolled over on my back to get a look at whoever had just saved my ass. He'd only said two words, but that was enough for me to know that the voice wasn't Karl's.
The first thing I saw was the weapon – a cut-down shotgun with smoke drifting from the end of a foot-long tube attached to the barrel. I'd heard they made silencers for shotguns, but never saw one in use until now. Very handy, if you were looking to kill somebody with certainty and not make a lot of noise about it.
I tried to focus on the man who was now lowering the weapon. He wore a long black leather coat that hung open to reveal the bandolier of shells across his chest, a widebrimmed hat keeping his face in shadow, and Oakley sunglasses, even after dark. On a lot of people that getup would look silly, but on this man it seemed exactly right. Of course, I'd seen him once before – even though, until recently, I'd thought he was dead.
"Sharkey." It wasn't a question – I knew who he was.
He looked down at me and a smile split his thin face for an instant. He touched the brim of his hat, said, "Evening, Sergeant," in that Darth Vader voice, then stepped back into the gloom at the end of the driveway.
I scrambled to my feet and went after him. I couldn't tell you what I wanted – to say "Thank you," or ask him why he'd saved me, or even arrest him. That last choice was the least likely. Even if I'd had a loaded gun, I'd have hesitated before trying to arrest Sharkey all by myself.
It didn't matter, anyway. By the time I got to the street it was empty. A couple of my neighbors were out on their porches, but I didn't yell over to ask if they'd seen the man in the hat and leather coat. Most people only saw Sharkey when it was too late.
Sirens off in the distance now, wailing like the souls of the damned.
I spent the next hour at my house, answering questions from fellow detectives and giving statements. Then they let me go to work, where I spent three straight hours with Internal Affairs. But it didn't go too bad, for Internal Affairs. They had a couple of new guys, Boothe and Durkin, doing the Q-andA, and I guess they hadn't yet been through the "Advanced Asshole" course that seems mandatory for everybody on the Rat Squad, because it wasn't nearly as unpleasant as such sessions have been in the past.
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